Truly an astonishing condition of things and tending, one would say, to prove that Captain Sam's didactic remark, so long locally accepted and quoted as gospel truth, had a flaw in its wisdom somewhere.
And yet the flaw was but a small one and the explanation simple.
Gabriel was not talking at that moment, it is true, but he was expecting to talk very soon, to talk a great deal.

He had just come into possession of an item of news which would furnish his vocal machine gun with ammunition sufficient for wordy volley after volley.

Gabriel was joyfully contemplating peppering all Orham with that bit of gossip.

No wonder he was happy; no wonder he hurried along the main road like a battery galloping eagerly into action.
He was on his way to the post office, always the gossip- sharpshooters' first line trench, when, turning the corner where Nickerson's Lane enters the main road, he saw something which caused him to pause, alter his battle-mad walk to a slower one, then to a saunter, and finally to a halt altogether.

This something was a toy windmill fastened to a white picket fence and clattering cheerfully as its arms spun in the brisk, pleasant summer breeze.
The little windmill was one of a dozen, all fastened to the top rail of that fence and all whirling.